(F&F3) Buried Secrets
by Harper64
Summary: Set after 'Lover's Seat' in April 1941. Foyle plays host to a family of evacuees, one of whom holds a clue to a murder which puts Frances in danger.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

.

_April 1941_

It was Thursday and Frances Foyle was looking forward to having her husband home for a few days over the Easter weekend, murder and mayhem permitting. Their plans were simple; church on Good Friday and Easter Sunday with a decent meal to follow and some precious time together. The country may be at war, but that didn't stop some people from taking advantage of difficult times to line their own pockets, and her husband, Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle was determined that such actions should not go unpunished. Add to that a smattering of murders, coupled with German activity, such as he had just finished investigating, and it was amazing that he was ever home. His latest case had even taken him away for a few nights, leaving Frances to occupy their bed alone - not something she enjoyed. Despite having slept alone for twelve years she had no wish to do so again.

Frances had spent the last week visiting solicitors in the area in search of a job. When she worked in London she had a responsible role as a senior researcher investigating inheritance claims and was hoping to find something similar. Unfortunately Hastings was a sleepy seaside town compared with the capital and none of the people she had spoken to had seen the need for such a service. A little disheartened, she was now considering other jobs. As she had told her husband, she needed to use her brain. But what could she do?

.

.

She was cleaning in the hallway, the wireless playing in the living room for company. The Daily Service was on and she was singing along to 'Be Thou My Guardian and My Guide', one of her favourite hymns. Although not deeply religious, Frances appreciated the words, music and atmosphere of a church service, something familiar and comforting in this time of worry and change. The programme finished and she waited for the jingle that introduced 'Music While You Work'.

Instead she heard the presenter's voice, "We interrupt this morning's programmes to bring you a report from the city of Coventry."

Frances put down her duster and went into the living room to listen. Her younger brother, Joe, and his wife lived in Coventry with their three children. Joe was the chief design engineer at one of the aircraft factories in the city, a reserved occupation, meaning she did not have to worry about him serving abroad. However, Coventry, with its industrial and manufacturing heritage, was a prime target for German raids. The previous November an horrendous attack had taken place, with over five hundred people killed and the city practically cut off with fire and rubble. It was a miracle that Joe's house had not been touched, but water, gas and electricity supplies had been damaged and life had been very difficult indeed. After hearing from her sister-in-law, Mags, at Christmas, Frances had hoped to visit but this had not happened. She listened with her heart in her mouth.

"On Tuesday night over two hundred German planes flew over the city for six hours, dropping bombs and incendiaries on the already badly damaged city centre. Last night the bombers returned for another three hours of attack. It is estimated that over three hundred tons of bombs were released. The historic King Henry VIII School was destroyed, as were the central Police Station and the Warwickshire Hospital. There will be more information in the one o'clock news bulletin. We return now to our scheduled programme."

The wireless remained on, but Frances was not listening. She tried telephoning Joe's house but was told by the operator that all lines were busy and she should try again later. Housework forgotten, she tried every half-hour for the rest of the day without success. Eventually, at a quarter past six she managed to get a line, only to be told that the number she wanted was 'out of order'.

.

.

She was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs with the telephone still on her lap when Christopher arrived home. One look at her face told him that something was wrong and he sat her in the living room and went to put on the kettle.

"What's happened, love?" he asked gently, handing her a cup of tea. From the look of the kitchen she had neither drunk nor eaten all day.

Frances managed to tell him what she had heard and how she had been unable to get through to her brother. Foyle had been out all day, had no idea about the news, but knew how bad the previous raids had been in the city.

_'__My God, it sounds bad!' _he thought, _'The place must be absolutely devastated. We'll have to prepare for bad news."_

_._

_._

Foyle had met Joe, briefly, on the day he'd married Frances. He'd had the impression of a cheerful, optimistic young man whose job carried a huge responsibility. Joe and Andrew had had a long discussion about Joe's job; he designing and making planes and Andrew flying them. He knew little of Joe's wife, Mags, other than she was a former nurse and that they had three children and another on the way. What a waste of life that would be if the worst were to have happened.

She tried several times that evening to get through, but without any luck and Frances was exhausted. Eventually Christopher persuaded her that she could do nothing more until the morning and she should go to bed. She went upstairs while he washed up after their meagre meal and laid the fire, which had gone out, ready for morning.

Going upstairs he was expecting to find Frances awake and worrying but she was fast asleep. He studied her face, long lashes against her pale cheeks, light-brown hair strewn across the pillow, the few freckles on her nose which she hated but he adored.

_'__Oh, Fran, my love; I don't want you hurt again,'_ he thought, _Please, God, let them be safe. I can't bear to see you unhappy.'_

He knew that she had seen her share of sadness and was determined that he would do all he could to prevent her experiencing more. There were some things he could do nothing about, but he was working on everything else and her panic attacks occurred less and less as the months went by.

.

.

Pyjamas on, he eased into bed beside her. She turned in her sleep, facing him, throwing one arm over his chest, one leg bent over his. As always, her nearness stirred his body and within moments he was fully erect. Not wanting to disturb her, he tried to ignore the urge to satisfy his body's demands.

'_We've been married nearly a year, and I'm like this every time she's near me,' _he smiled to himself,_ 'She's bewitched me. But I can't wake her up, she's tired and upset. This is the last thing she wants.'_

Fran stirred again, her knee moving until it lay across the top of his thigh. Gingerly he tried to move, to slide her leg down.

"What's the matter?" she muttered sleepily, "can't you get comfortable?"

"I'm fine, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."

As she moved her arm to turn over, her hand found the source of his discomfort, stopped and caressed him. He gave an involuntary groan as she explored the area further. Without a word she rolled onto her back and lifted one leg over him. He moved under her to find there was nothing beneath her nightdress, nothing between them to hinder his entry.

.

.

They lay wrapped in each other's' arms afterwards.

"It's not fair, is it, love? That we can be enjoying ourselves like this when others are dying, grieving, being miserable," said Frances sadly.

"Well, that's exactly why it's so enjoyable," replied Christopher, "otherwise the human race would never have survived."

"You've been reading philosophy again, I see," sighed Fran.

"I get little time to read these days," he retorted, "other things to take care of, you know?"

He kissed her forehead and settled himself into his favourite sleeping positon, curled behind her, with a protective arm over her body. "Now go to sleep."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

.

The Good Friday morning service was solemn, made even more so by their concern about Frances' family.

They ate lunch in virtual silence; Christopher had discouraged her from repeatedly telephoning for news.

"They'll call here if they can," he told her, "and the emergency services need the lines. Please, Fran, just leave it for a day or two."

He'd spoken in what she termed his 'work voice' and it was the closest he had ever come to being angry with her. She knew he was correct, of course, but he couldn't understand what Joe meant to her. Three years apart in age, with two considerably older brothers, they had always been very close.

The weekend dragged, made all the worse by the fact that she had been so looking forward to it. Frances could stand the tension in the house no longer and, Easter Monday evening, she went out for a walk alone, knowing that she was on the verge of snapping at her husband and his calm, measured way of dealing with things. She went down to the seafront; the sound of the waves always made her feel more peaceful.

Back home, she opened the door. Christopher came out of the living room to meet her; she suddenly felt sick with fear.

"They're safe," he said, "Joe telephoned, "they're safe."

.

.

Sitting together on the sofa, he told her what Joe had said. After the first raid they had used precious petrol to get out of the city, gone to Binley Woods with a few belongings. Mags and the children had stayed there in a makeshift shelter built by other 'trekkers' whilst Joe had driven back into the city. He had returned after the second night, their home virtually destroyed by the bombing.

"He asked if Mags and the children could come here," said Christopher, "he's staying, his work is too important to leave, but they have nowhere to live, until he can find them somewhere. I said yes."

Frances hugged him, "Thank you, thank you, love. I know how you like your privacy but…"

"What else could I do? They're my family now, after all."

.

.

Two days later Frances stood waiting for the train that would bring her sister-in-law, nephews and niece to Hastings. She had arranged the house, preparing Andrew's room for Mags and three-year old Alice, and the back bedroom for the boys, nine year-old Adam and six-year old Daniel. Christopher had been enlisted to move any valuable or precious items from downstairs in case of accidents.

"I remember doing this when Andrew started walking," he said, "I could never find anything if he got his hands on it."

He'd asked about Mags, whom he'd never met.

"She's, um, she's very straightforward," Fran had told him, "She doesn't beat about the bush. I must admit I found her a bit… abrasive when I first met her. But once you get to know her it actually makes life easier, you know, not having to be too polite. She's never offended. The boys are lovely and I haven't seen Alice since she was a baby."

When the train arrived and her guests alighted Fran was appalled to see how little they had in the way of luggage. She had expected Mags to be tired, but was not prepared for the sad state of all of them. Fran had planned to take them all to a local cafe, as a treat for them after the journey, but Mags looked so drawn and the children so bedraggled that she abandoned the idea in favour of a hot bath and bed.

"Oh, that sounds wonderful," said Mags when she suggested it, "we are just…." She seemed too exhausted to speak.

Frances actually wondered whether they'd manage the walk home, part of it being uphill, so when they exited the station and she saw a familiar vehicle, she was very relieved.

"Afternoon, Mrs Foyle," smiled Sam, "Mr Foyle asked me to come and pick you all up."

It was a bit of a squash, but they all fitted in.

_'__Christopher Foyle,'_ thought Frances, _'you are the best person I know. Bless you, my love.'_

"Thank you so much Sam," said Fran as they got out in Steep Lane. "Give my husband a kiss from me and say thank you to him, too."

Sam blushed prettily, "Certainly not, Mrs Foyle," she said sternly, "that would not be correct police procedure." She smiled, "But I will tell him you very much appreciated the lift." She looked pointedly at the group, one bag between them all. "I'll put him in the picture as well," she said quietly.

Foyle was dismayed, but not surprised when Sam told him. He immediately sent her off to the local WRVS headquarters to acquire some clothing for the children while he made a few telephone calls.

.

.

When he arrived home that evening Frances was alone; Mags and the children, having had a bath, were all asleep in bed. Sam arrived just a short time later with a variety of clothing and a couple of jigsaws. Christopher, having eaten, disappeared quietly up to the second floor and re-appeared with several of Andrew's old playthings.

"Always hoped they'd be used again," he said.

Frances knew the sadness behind that remark and hugged him hard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**.**

It was a couple of weeks before Mags and the children were anywhere near settled. There had been tears, accidents and tantrums from the children; realising that this was a reaction to all they'd been through, Frances took it all with a calm cheerfulness. She did worry about Christopher though, when every night was disturbed by someone, but he too was incredibly patient with everyone, even Adam who seemed to resent his being there when his father was not.

Mags was beginning to look and act as she always had, although her pregnancy was slowing her down. The boys had been enrolled in Priory Street Primary School, and now they got to sleep through at least one night a week. Joe contacted them often, but Frances knew that Mags was desperately worried for him.

_'__How resilient children are,'_ she thought, _'the younger they are the quicker they adapt. There's only Adam who still is not happy.'_

The only thing Frances missed were the quiet companionable evenings with Christopher, which often ended very pleasurably in front of the fire. Now their lovemaking was quiet and restrained so as not to disturb the others. Their little visitors, however, brought a bonus. Alice, three years old and absolutely delightful, had taken a shine to Christopher. Only _he_ could read her a story, only _his_ shoulders could carry her on a walk, only _he_ could cut up her food into manageable pieces. The sight of her husband sitting with the little girl on his lap, reading to her, the sound of her giggle when he gently teased her, was bitter-sweet.

_._

_._

The boy's scream rang through the house.

_'__Andrew!'_ thought Foyle.

He was out of bed and through the door before he remembered that Andrew was now an adult and training pilots elsewhere. He went into the boys' bedroom to find a sleepy, confused Adam, and Daniel screaming at the top of his voice. Mags followed him in and managed to calm the boy down, while Christopher went and made a pot of tea. She accepted a cup gratefully, having put Daniel in her bed and got him back to sleep.

"Many thanks, Christopher," she said, "I can see why Fran chose you."

Foyle rubbed the back of his neck. "Any idea what it was all about?" he asked.

"He was saying something about teeth, of all things," answered Mags, "Nightmares never make sense do they?"

.

.

The nightmares continued. One evening, Mags, tired and suffering with backache, shouted at Daniel when he complained about going to bed.

"Put your feet up," Christopher told Mags, "I'll take him to bed."

He did and was so long that Frances went up to see what was happening. Peeping round the door she saw Christopher sitting on Daniel's bed, his arm around the boy's shoulders. They were talking in quiet voices.

_'__This must have been how he was with Andrew,_' she thought, _'he's so good with the children, a natural father.'_

When he eventually came downstairs he told them what he had found out.

"There's a bungalow near the school," he said, "an old man, bit of a loner, lives there. The kids torment him and he comes out and shouts at them. They call him Tommy Greenteeth. I'm amazed he's still there, I wasn't at that school, but I remember hearing about him when I was young. Anyway, the bigger kids have been telling Danny that Tommy Greenteeth is going to get him."

"Kids can be so cruel," said Mags, "poor thing."

"And since when was Daniel, Danny?" asked Frances.

"Since he told me that's what he likes to be called, of course," answered Christopher.

.

.

There were no more nightmares and Frances took the opportunity of speaking to Daniel when his mother was resting one afternoon.

"I hear you told Uncle Christopher all about Tommy Greenteeth," she started, hoping she wasn't opening a can of worms.

"That's not his name," Danny corrected her, "he's a sad old man and Uncle Christopher said I should call him Mr Tommy. He shouts but he won't hurt me. He just doesn't understand because he's so old."

"Quite right," agreed Fran.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**.**

Sergeant Milner knocked on Foyle's door just after nine o'clock.

"Sir, there's been a body found up in Priory Street."

As Sam drove the two of them up the road, Foyle saw the young constable standing in the overgrown garden of 'Mr Tommy's' house.

"Looks like he's been dead a couple of days, sir," said the pale young man as Foyle acknowledged him.

Inside, the bungalow was filthy, every room crammed with piles of newspapers, empty tins and bottles. Rags and clothing covered the furniture, and the smell was appalling. The body was in the bedroom, as dirty as its surroundings.

"Get the Medical Officer to have a look, will you, Milner," said Foyle. Always a fastidious man, he did not want to spend any more time in the place than was necessary, "I'd ask you to search the premises but that's going to be a bugger. Have a think how we can manage this."

The young constable outside gave him the details.

"He was found by a neighbour, sir." the young man told him. "Apparently he was a bit of a recluse, but he did like to go out into his back garden every day. When they didn't see him for a couple of days they tried the door, smelt the place and called us in."

Foyle was admitted to the house next door by an elderly woman.

"Yes," she said in answer to his question, "Tommy was out there every day. Used to put any food scraps he had outside. I think he liked to watch the foxes it attracted, but it meant we got rats around as well. So we used to keep an eye out, you know, move anything that was too smelly."

"And, how did he get his food?" asked Foyle. "Didn't do his own shopping, did he?"

"No, no, he's never left the property these last few years. A young woman used to come round every few days; I suppose she brought him stuff."

"Do you know who this young woman is?" asked Foyle. "When did you last see her?"

"No idea. She was here, oh, Tuesday, I think it was."

"And did you see Tommy after that?"

"Um, yes, yes I saw him Wednesday, shouting at the children going to school."

Foyle got a not too detailed description of the visitor and left, thanking the woman.

"Could be half the women in Hastings," he told Milner, "see if anyone else in the street can do any better."

He started to leave, turned back, "And be careful about _when_ you move the body. There's a school up the road, best if they don't see it, yes?"

.

.

Back at the station, Foyle asked for the registration details for Tommy's address. He was not surprised to find that the victim was not named Tommy at all, but was one Reginald Hathersmith, aged seventy two, bachelor.

"We've started a search, sir," Milner told him when he returned, "but it's going to be a long job." He explained how they were going about it, moving piles of 'belongings' outside to sort through, and then dispose of.

"Appreciate that, Milner. Thanks for arranging it. Doubt if anything significant will be found but…."

.

.

The following day the Medical Officer's report was on his desk.

"Head wound, hit with a blunt instrument, otherwise surprisingly healthy considering the state of the place," Foyle told Milner. "Any ideas of motive?"

"Is the MO sure it wasn't accidental, sir? Tripped on the rubbish, hit his head?" When Foyle indicated otherwise he continued, "Well, given the state of the place I wouldn't have thought it was theft."

"Wouldn't you?" replied Foyle, his eyebrow lifting.

They returned to the bungalow, where two constables were continuing the search.

"Found anything?" asked Foyle.

"Only rubbish, sir. He must have kept everything he'd ever had for years. Some of the newspapers were from before the last war!"

"Right, well, keep at it."

"Sir, someone was here last night, though," added one constable.

"Really? How'd you know?"

"Some of the stuff we'd gone through has been burned. In the back garden."

"Anything inside touched?"

"Difficult to say, sir, but I don't think so."

"Best get the places secured, just in case. And see whether the neighbours saw anything. Milner?"

"I'll get onto it, sir."

.

.

Background enquiries into Reginald Hathersmith prove scanty. He had lived in the bungalow since before 1900, but no-one knew anything about him other than his nickname. Most of those who'd had anything to do with him reckoned he 'wasn't right in the head'. A more enlightened Foyle wondered what the man may have experienced to make him the way he was.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Christopher expressed his frustration about the case to Frances.

"We know next to nothing about the chap, we have no motive, no murder weapon, nothing," he told her. "If it hadn't been for compulsory registration we wouldn't even know his name."

"Are there any other Hathersmiths in the area?" she asked him, "Have you checked?"

His expression told her he had.

Conversation moved on after that but Frances' interest had been awakened.

.

.

The next day Frances went to the Town Hall. They knew her well there; she'd offered her services and done a bit of voluntary work in the Register Office when they were short staffed.

"I'm doing some private research," she told them. "Can I use the registers?"

This proved not to be a problem and, armed with what little she knew, she began her search. It felt good to be back doing something that she loved; she'd missed her job since moving to Hastings, even though she'd found other things to keep her busy.

Several hours later she had the beginnings of a family tree for Reginald Hathersmith, born 1873.

William HATHERSMITH married 1865 Bertha BECK

born 1840 born 1845

3 children

William Sydney Reginald Arthur Albert John

born 1869 born 1873 born 1878

.

.

She walked home feeling very satisfied, and determined to find out more. All the records she had found were for the Hastings area, and, of course, there was no guarantee that there may not have been more children born elsewhere, but it was a start. Before leaving she had asked about the location of other records and now she began to plan her research.

.

.

Over the next few days, as Foyle and Milner endeavoured to find the identity of Reginald's visitor, and a murder weapon, Frances was making telephone calls to ex-colleagues in London, one to Lewes Probate Officer and continuing her search of the birth, marriage and death registers. A visit to the 'Hastings and St Leonards Observer' offices and one to the local library concluded her research. She said nothing to her husband but began to organise the information she had found.

Meanwhile, the man's visitor could not be identified and was not seen again, there appeared to be no motive; the case was making no headway at all. Reluctantly Foyle put the case to one side in favour of more pressing matters - a gang of thieves working all along the coast, stealing metal, timber and other building materials, selling them on to private firms. Milner was busy setting up a decoy builders' merchants, in the hope of finding a contact in the gang.

.

.

It was eight o'clock and Christopher had finished the blackout routine at home. Mags was sitting, feet up, knitting, having put Alice to bed. Nine-year-old Adam was absent – gone out after eating and not yet returned.

"I hope he's back soon," said Mags, worry showing on her face, "He knows he's not allowed to be out this late."

The front door slammed as Adam entered, sauntered into the living room and sat down.

"Where have you been?" asked Mags.

"Out and about," came the answer, "with some mates."

"And who are these mates?" Mags persisted.

"Bert, Charlie and a few others."

"And what were you doing?"

"Flipping heck, if I'm getting the third degree I'm going to bed," scowled Adam, and did just that.

Frances and Christopher exchanged glances. They had decided when the family arrived that they would not interfere with Mags' discipline. Frances knew, however, that Mags was struggling with this new defiant behaviour that Adam was displaying.

.

.

Christopher broke the tension by telling them about having to put the murder case on hold.

"We're still being called out there a couple of times a week, though," he said, "the place seems to attract vandals. They're setting fires and breaking the place apart, digging holes, knocking down walls."

"Perhaps they're looking for the buried treasure, Uncle Christopher," piped up Danny who was sitting with a glass of milk before bedtime.

"What treasure's that then, Danny?" asked Christopher.

"Mr Tommy's treasure," answered the boy, "everybody knows he'd got buried treasure in his house."

"Well, um, I didn't," said Christopher, "so thanks for telling me about it."

.

.

As they were getting ready for bed that night Christopher was very quiet. Frances knew the significance.

"What's bothering you, love?" she asked, "Is it what Danny told you?"

"It is. He may well be right about why the place is being vandalised. Kids have all kinds of secrets that adults know nothing about."

"Well, it's strange that he should mention buried treasure. I've been doing a bit of digging of my own."

She told him what she had discovered.

"Well I never," he smiled, when she had finished, "who needs Mr Tommy's treasure when I've got one of my own. I do love you, 'Sergeant Foyle'."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**.**

Following the information discovered by his wife, Foyle located the young woman, a Marian Arrowsmith from Bexhill. She produced Reginald's ration book and admitted that she had been buying his food for him.

"He's my uncle," she told them, "Well, great-uncle really. I've been helping him out for a while now."

She was brought in for questioning, but was unable to throw any light on who would have wanted to kill Reginald.

"I'd have helped him more," she told Milner when she was interviewed, "but he wouldn't let me in the place. I don't think he let anyone in. He was afraid people were going to steal from him."

"It appears there was nothing worth stealing," Milner said, "The place was full of rubbish, but nothing of any value."

"That's what _I_ thought," she replied.

.

.

"What d'you think, Milner," asked Foyle when the interview was over, "She telling us everything?"

"I'm not sure, sir" he answered, "Did you catch that last comment?"

"Certainly did," Foyle looked at him quizzically, "that's what _she_ thought. I wonder who thought something different?"

.

.

Foyle was in his office working at seemingly never-ending paperwork when he heard the bells.

_'__Ambulance and fire engine,'_ he thought_, 'wonder what's going on? Daresay I'll find out soon enough.'_

Nearly half an hour later there was knock at his door and Sergeant Milner came in, his expression serious.

"Sir, you're needed, at the hospital," his tone was urgent.

Foyle looked up in surprise. He noticed more and more that Milner was adopting his own unhurried way of speaking, even when a matter was pressing; now he seemed unusually agitated.

"The hospital?" Foyle raised an eyebrow.

"Yes sir, Sam's waiting in the car."

_'__Well if Miner thinks it's that important….'_

Milner hurried down the corridor ahead of him, as if to stress the urgency.

"Who exactly am I going to see, Milner?"

"It's, um, sir, it's your wife."

Foyle's heart contracted and his legs refused to work, "Fran? What's happened?"

"I'll explain on the way, sir," Milner's hand was on his back now, guiding him; his legs moving without any idea where he was going. Milner led him out of the station to where Sam had the car already running. She looked as if she'd been crying.

'_Good Lord, what….'_ Foyle's brain was numb. With effort he tried to understand what Milner was telling him.

"There was a fire at Hathersmith's bungalow, sir," Milner told him, "we don't know yet how it started, but it seems that young Adam and some other lads were inside. Mrs Foyle had gone looking for him, seen the fire, gone inside to get the boys."

"Adam?" Foyle latched onto a word he recognised.

"Yes, Sir," continued Milner, "he's OK, coughing a bit from the smoke like the others but…"

"For God's sake, tell me, man!" Foyle's brain began to work, terrified at the thought of what was waiting for him at the hospital.

"Well, it appears that Mrs Foyle got them out safely, but as she was following, part of the roof collapsed."

_'__No, no, no, no…'_

"She was trapped by her legs, sir. The Fire Brigade got her out."

"And.. ?"

"Sir?"

"Milner," he spoke patiently now, as if to a child, "is she .. ?" He couldn't bring himself to say it, as if by saying the word aloud would make it true.

"Oh, she's alive, Sir. It's her legs…." Milner shuddered at the memory of his damaged leg, now gone forever.

.

.

A young constable he vaguely recognised was waiting inside the hospital.

"This way, sir," he led Foyle through endless corridors, swing doors, round corners, finally stopping at a ward. He held the door open.

Foyle was familiar with the layout of the wards, often visiting victims or friends in hospital. In the centre of the room the Sister's desk was the focal point, and that was where he went first. The Sister led him to a side room and sat him on a chair outside the door.

Your wife's in here, Mr Foyle," she told him, "but the doctor's with her now. You'll have to wait until he comes out to speak to him."

The wait seemed endless; at last a young doctor came out and sat next to him.

"Are you a relative?" he asked.

"Her husband", Foyle answered huskily, his throat constricted with anxiety.

"Well, Mr Foyle, let me explain…"

The doctor's explanation was brief, but a few pertinent questions from Foyle encouraged him to be more specific. Fran had second degree burns on both legs, and one was possibly broken. X-rays would be taken later. A nasty crack on the head had knocked her unconscious, but she had since come round. There would probably be concussion so she would be observed closely. The burns would be treated, take a few weeks to heal and would be painful. She had been given something strong for the pain and would be very groggy, but he could go in and see her.

"Don't stay too long, Mr Foyle," warned the doctor, "she needs her rest and Sister will not be happy if you disturb her."

Fran was propped up on several pillows, a cage over her legs. Her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow.

_'__But she's alive, thank you, God.'_

He sat next to the bed and took her hand in his. She didn't stir. Her face, even paler than usual, was dirty with soot stains, her hair tangled. He wanted to gather her in his arms; instead he took her hand, held it to his face.

"Time to go, Mr Foyle," came Sister's sharp voice. He hadn't even registered that she'd come into the room.

She must have seen something in his eyes, her voice softened, "Your wife will be well looked after, don't you worry. Now, there's paper work to complete if you'd be so kind."

Foyle thought about his desk and the pile of paperwork which he'd left. "Of course, Sister, whatever you say."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

**.**

Mags was waiting at home, a very abashed Adam at her side. After hearing how Frances was doing, she pushed Adam forward.

"Go on, then," she prompted the boy," Tell him all about it."

The boy, shamefacedly, told him what he'd been up to with Charlie and Bert, and how the fire had started. The last pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

_._

_._

_'__It must be delayed shock,_' thought Foyle, sitting alone that evening, everyone else having gone to bed. He had reached his favourite crystal tumbler from the top shelf in the kitchen and poured himself a good measure of single malt. Now his hand was shaking so much that he couldn't drink it.

The door opened and a tiny head appeared, dark curls tousled.

"Hello Alice," he said softly, "Why aren't you in bed? And where's your Mummy?"

"Mummy's sleeping," Alice toddled over to him and clambered into his lap, "I woked up."

She looked up at him, "Are you sad, Uncle Christopher?"

"I am, Alice," he found his throat so constricted he could hardly speak, "I'm sad because Aunty Fran is poorly and has to stay in hospital."

Her arms went round his neck and held him tight. The tears, held in check all day, ran down his cheeks.

.

.

Interviews were held the next day and following these an arrest was made. A forty-five year old general labourer, Henry Arrowsmith, was arrested for manslaughter. His sons, twelve-year old Charles and ten-year old Albert were arrested for arson, although after being cautioned they were released. They were both white-faced after leaving the interview room where DCS Foyle had 'had a word' with them.

.

.

It was just over a week later when Foyle went to collect Frances from hospital. The leg had not been broken, just sprained at the knee, the burns were healing well and a district nurse had been arranged to change the dressings at home. Fran had been moved into the main ward once the initial risk of infection was over, and was much more her cheerful self. Entering the ward, Foyle saw that the curtains were pulled around Frances' bed.

_'__Probably getting dressed,'_ he thought, wondering how she would manage being unable to wear trousers, which she loved.

Sister intercepted him on his way across the ward. "One moment, Mr Foyle," she said, "The doctor is with your wife. Please wait in the corridor."

He waited dutifully and was surprised when the doctor came out to speak to him.

"We're still concerned about a couple of things," he told Foyle, "one being this abdominal discomfort that your wife can't seem to shake."

Foyle was taken aback. He remembered a couple of times when Fran had felt, or indeed, had been sick, but they had put it down to travelling long distances. He was not aware of any 'abdominal discomfort', although, thinking about it, Fran hadn't been eating as well as usual lately.

"I've done a thorough examination and taken some samples for testing," the doctor continued, "she can go home as planned, but if it gets any worse I want you to bring her back."

Foyle's questions resulted in some vague answers, amounting to 'wait for the test results', but Fran, when she emerged, looked so much better and so happy to be going home that he pushed his concerns to the back of his mind.

.

.

When he questioned her, Fran was equally as vague.

"It's not even really discomfort," she told him, "I just don't feel 'right' if you know what I mean."

.

.

Christopher cornered Mags, sat her at the kitchen table and asked her about it, knowing her experience in medical matters.

"Did she tell _you_ about it?" he asked.

"We've talked about it, yes," replied Mags, "but she couldn't pin down any specific symptoms so I couldn't help."

"Why didn't she tell _me_?" Christopher was annoyed, "I'm her husband!"

"And she loves you, and didn't want to worry you with something that may be nothing," Mags was equally annoyed at the general attitude of men that they should be told everything.

"Do you think it is anything? Should I be worried?" he asked her, "I can't lose her, Mags, I'm so…." He put his head in his hands.

"I know, Christopher," she said gently, I know. I feel exactly the same about her brother."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

**.**

"Well," said Mags as they sat at the table that Sunday lunchtime, "are we going to hear all the details or do we have to guess?"

"Shouldn't be discussing the case before it comes to court," teased Foyle, much more at ease with her than he ever thought he'd be.

"For crying out loud," exclaimed Mags, "We're going home tomorrow, well not home exactly but, you know what I mean. Come on, spill the beans."

Christopher explained it all, with a few interruptions from Frances.

"Reginald, 'Mr Tommy' to most of us, his father made quite a fortune when he worked for the London, Brighton and South Coast railway in the 1860s; he left about £12000 in his will to be shared between his three sons," began Foyle.

Mags whistled, "Quite a fortune!"

"Reginald had always been a bit 'strange' and the eldest, William, didn't think he should have his share of the money because he couldn't be trusted with it," Frances continued.

"There was a family argument with the youngest, Alfred, siding with Reginald. However, when their father died Reginald did inherit his share from his dad; he also got the house," Foyle explained.

"He also inherited a substantial amount from his brother Alfred who was killed in the last war," Frances went on, "So Reginald was living in the family home with two shares of the money but… he hardly spent a penny of it."

She smiled at Danny, "It was his hidden treasure."

"William married and had children, who shared his contempt of 'Tommy'. The son, Henry, was especially jealous and determined to get the money he thought his father was entitled to. And when William died there was no-one between Henry and Reginald's money."

"Henry's children, of course, knew all about the family feud, and the family secret that the eccentric 'Tommy Greenteeth' was actually their great-uncle. The eldest, Marian, got to know 'Tommy' and had been doing his shopping for him for several years."

Foyle went on, "But Henry needed money; he was living beyond his means and had run up debts. He confessed; it was he who hit Tommy. He says he didn't mean to kill him, just wanted to threaten him into revealing the location of the money. Whatever his intentions, 'Tommy' died without revealing where the money was hidden."

"Once 'Tommy' was out of the way, Henry's sons, Charlie and Bert, decided they would look for the treasure and roped in some other lads," Frances looked at Adam, "Of course, they never intended to _share_ what they found."

Adam went red. After a tongue-lashing from his mother and a quiet word from Foyle in his 'work voice' (Frances knew which she would prefer any day) he fully understood how he'd been used, as well as the consequences of his actions.

Foyle took over, "So, while trying to look underneath the floorboards they knocked over a candle, and let the fire get out of control. Before they knew it they were trapped." He, too, looked at Adam, "Fortunately, one of those lads has a family who care for him and came looking for him. We know what happened then, don't we, Adam?"

Adam looked as if he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him, "I'm sorry, Aunt Frances," he sobbed.

"I know, Adam. What you don't know, is that when the ceiling collapsed on me it dislodged a metal box that had been hidden between the rafters," Frances told him.

"Buried treasure!" Danny shouted.

"Yes, Danny, hidden treasure," Foyle smiled, "and 'Mr Tommy' wasn't as stupid as people thought. He'd made a will and all left the money to the only one of his family who did anything for him, his grand-niece, Marian."

"What I don't understand," said Mags, "is why you didn't find the family earlier."

"Ah, that's where 'Sergeant Foyle's' knowledge came into its own, "explained Foyle, "We were looking for Hathersmiths, but there were none. She discovered the connection."

"When I was making a family tree for the Hathersmiths," Fran continued, "I found William's birth and his marriage to a Gwenda Landers. But I couldn't find any more records for them. However, in the Town Directory I found a "William and Gwenda Arrowsmith' who had seemingly appeared out of the blue. There was no-one of that name combination married anywhere."

Foyle took up the story, "It seems that at some point the surname had been misheard or written so badly that it became Arrowsmith. Sergeant Foyle," he smiled at Fran fondly, "tells me it's not unknown."

"It happened a lot before most people were literate," Fran agreed, "People couldn't check whether the spelling of their name was correct or not."

"We now know that William's family stuck with the Arrowsmith variation to distance themselves from 'Tommy'." Foyle concluded, "We cracked it."

"Excuse me," said Fran, "Who cracked it? I found the wills, and the newspapers that mentioned Mr Tommy's father as having made money from the railway."

"Oh, we'd have got there eventually," said Foyle airily, earning himself a playful slap and a kiss.

.

.

"I never thought I'd say this but I'll miss them all," said Christopher, the following evening, "especially young Alice."

"When this war is finally over, perhaps we'll see them more often, "Fran said hopefully, "get to know the new baby too, little Christopher or Frances."

"Really?" smiled Christopher.

"Really!" Frances confirmed, "Now, I have some news myself."

"Oh?" queried Christopher, "what's that then?"

"I had a letter today from my old firm. They're desperate for staff with experience; they want me to go back."

Christopher's heart sank. He knew that Fran was eager to do something that matched her abilities and could find nothing in Hastings. This was an opportunity for her to do just that. But he was horrified at the thought of her going back to London during the Blitz. Would she really consider it? She'd given it up to be with him – could he stop her if she wanted to return? Should he?

"And, um, are you thinking about it?" he asked as unemotionally as he could.

"Well I have to consider it, don't I," she answered, "but there are so many other things to take into account. I'd have to stay there during the week…."

"Couldn't you do the work from here?" he asked hopefully, already knowing the answer.

"No, not really, so much of it involves the Somerset House records, and then there's the travelling for out-of-office research," her voice was quiet, but he knew how much she missed the work; remembered how animated she'd been about it that first week they'd met. Her enthusiasm was one of the things that had attracted her to him.

The thought of Fran being in London all week was unbearable, but would it be better than persuading her to stay and having her resent him for it; not right now perhaps, but in the future? He'd always made his own decisions; how could he deny her the right to do so?

"Fran, love, it's your decision," he said finally, "I'm here if you need to talk about it, but you have to decide."

"Right, well, I'll see ..." She came to put her arms around him. "And now, Chief Superintendant Foyle, we have the house to ourselves…."

.

.

It was two weeks later when the letter came, asking Fran to attend an appointment at the hospital.

She did not see the young doctor who had treated her there earlier; instead it was an older man who introduced himself as Mr Poynton.

"I've looked through the notes that young Dr Tranter made," he began, "he took a very detailed medical history. He also, very sensibly, arranged some tests. He'll make an excellent doctor with a little more experience."

He referred to the notes, "Now then, Mrs Foyle, would you mind if I examined you myself?"

Mr Poynton did a very thorough examination, chaperoned by a nurse, and asked a few pertinent questions. When she was dressed again, Fran sat in front of the desk, her heart in her mouth.

"Mm, yes, Mrs Foyle, the blood test shows you are a little anaemic," he said, "I'm going to prescribe a course of iron supplements. The other test, well, we I'm afraid I have some bad news."

_'__This doesn't sound good at all,'_ thought Frances, _'what have they found?'_

He told her.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Foyle was being driven home, at the usual time, when he saw Frances sitting on a wooden bench on the seafront.

"Just drop me here, Sam," he requested, "I'll walk the rest of the way. Goodnight."

Frances was gazing out to sea, but looked up when he stood next to her. She smiled absently.

"Christopher? What are you doing here?" Her voice sounded as far away as the distant horizon.

"Just on my way home and saw you. You alright? How long've you been here?" He sat down on the bench beside her.

"Mm, just listening to the sea," she said, "Why are you home so early?"

Christopher knew what this was; coming to the beach was what she did when she was upset or worried, needed to calm herself or work through a problem. He suddenly realised where she'd been that day and his stomach churned. What had happened that she needed this comfort? Her appointment had been at one o'clock; had something happened since then?

"How did you get on at the hospital?" he asked gently, "Have you been home, or sitting here all afternoon?"

"Oh, I didn't realise it was so late. I've done nothing for tea," Frances said.

"We'll find something to eat. The hospital?" he asked again.

"Mm? The doctor said I'm anaemic; he's given me something for it," she was still strangely preoccupied, vague.

He began to wonder whether the doctor had given her anything; he remember being in a similar state of calm drowsiness after being given morphine when he'd been wounded in the last war.

"Did he say anything else? What about the other tests?" Foyle was anxious now.

_'__What is she not telling me?' _he wondered,_ 'anaemia causes tiredness, not abdominal problems.'_

Frances stood, "Nothing to report. They didn't find anything. Come on, let's get home."

"You saw Dr Tranter," prompted Christopher, "what did he actually say?"

"No, it wasn't him. It was another doctor, older," said Fran, "He examined me and told me about the anaemia. That was it."

"Did he say what else they were testing for?" asked Christopher, his instinct telling him that there was more to be discovered.

"No, he just said there was nothing to worry about," answered Fran, "so I'm not and there's an end to it."

She began to walk away. She may have said there was nothing to worry about but Christopher wasn't so sure. He stood and followed her.

.

.

That night Fran rejected his advances for the first time ever, telling him that she was tired and just wanted to sleep. She had hardly spoken all evening and now she was curled up in bed beside him, an impenetrable bubble of misery. He had tried talking to her but she had shrugged off his questions in that same inattentive manner; he'd tried the quiet, quizzical approach that had pre-empted her telling him of her first marriage when they met. She had said nothing. Wondering if perhaps she needed some time, he made the decision to wait until she was ready to share whatever had caused this anguish, however difficult it may be.

.

.

Two days later and Fran had still not spoken about whatever the problem was. In fact, in general things were not going well for DCS Foyle at all. Assistant Commissioner Rose wanted him to drop an important case to check on a communist agitator and his sergeant, Milner, had been injured by one of the gang he'd contacted via the fake builder's merchants. Now Foyle found himself sitting at his desk and thinking about Frances. He had given up any thoughts of another relationship, let alone marriage, some years ago, but Fran had found her way into his heart last summer and now he couldn't imagine life without her. She was so different to anyone he'd known before, independent, generous, bright and not afraid to take the initiative in their relationship. And yet, he knew, she was sensitive and vulnerable as well, something which made him feel protective. How could he get through to her?

Could the day get any worse? It had. He'd arranged to meet Raymond Carter, the 'communist agitator', and his fiancée for lunch and even that had gone badly resulting in him leaving before the meal was served. At least the man's fiancée, artist Lucinda Sheridan, had followed him into the foyer to apologise for Carter's behaviour. As he left the station to walk home, Milner gave him a quick update on his current case. Foyle listened half-heartedly and asked a question for the sake of appearing to have listened. Unfortunately the answer had already been given him; Milner looked at his boss, surprised.

"Are you alright, sir?" he asked, "You seem a little, er, distracted."

Foyle rubbed his hand over his face. "You know, Milner, I'm not sure that I am," he said.

"Anything I can do to help?" asked Milner, concerned now. He had never known DCS Foyle show any sign of weakness, professionally or personally.

"No, Milner, I don't think anyone can. But thank you."

"Well, sir, you know where I am if you need anything," Milner told him, "Anything at all. Any time."

Foyle attempted a smile and left without another word.

**.**

**.**

By the time he reached home that evening Foyle was feeling wretched. He let himself in, hung up his hat and coat, heard Fran in the kitchen. He went in, greeted her with the usual kiss. Something was wrong, he could tell right away; Fran was even more offhand, distant.

"What's for dinner, love?" he asked warily, "I'm starving."

"Really?" her tone was cold, "Why? Didn't you have _time_ for lunch?"

Something about the way she asked the question made him alert.

"Actually, I didn't have any proper lunch, just a couple of biscuits at the station," he said cautiously.

"Right," Fran said, dishing up his meal, "you were too busy, perhaps?"

_'__What is she getting at?'_ he wondered, _'She's obviously upset or angry about something.'_

"Aren't you eating?" he asked, aware that she had only served one meal. "What's the matter? Aren't you feeling well?

"I'm fine," she answered, "just not hungry."

She walked out of the room and he heard her going upstairs. She hadn't reappeared by the time he finished his meal, so he went in search of her. He found her on the top floor, in the room she used for her sewing. This room had bare boards with a small, almost threadbare square of carpet in the middle. Apart from her sewing machine with a chair and an old chest-of-drawers that she used for her threads and fabrics the room was unfurnished. She was sitting on the chair; she looked as if she'd been crying.

"Fran, what is it? What's the matter?" he tried to touch her but she pulled away. "Is it something I've done?" he asked, although he couldn't think of anything that would have caused this reaction. "Tell me, please."

"No, you tell me," she suddenly turned on him, "What were you doing at the Regency Hotel this lunchtime?"

Foyle was momentarily confused; how on earth did she know he'd been there?

"I, um, I went to have lunch with someone," he said, "someone who may bring, um, trouble ..."

"I thought you said you didn't have any lunch," Fran was angry again, "Don't lie to me, Christopher!"

"Well, um, I didn't actually have any lunch. I ….."

She didn't let him finish. "Really? I wonder why?"

Foyle had had enough. The last few days had taken their toll on him both professionally and personally.

"For God's sake, Fran, just tell me what's going on and stop dancing round the subject," he snapped, angrier with her than he'd ever been before.

"I saw you. At the reception desk at the Regency. With a very beautiful woman. What were you doing? Finding someone else to take my place before I go?"

_'__Before I go….' _The words echoed round his head and sent an ominous shiver down his spine.

"No, Fran, no," he said quietly.

"So, who was she?" she asked.

"She was the fiancée of the chap I went to see. He was rude… I left… she followed me to apologise. That's it. That's all. How could you think…." He stopped, appalled that she would think him capable of such a thing, "I love _you_, Fran."

"Do you? Then why haven't you asked me to stay, Christopher?" He could hear the ice in her voice.

"Fran, you must know I want you to stay," he told her, "but it's what you want that's important. If you really want this job… if you really want it, I won't stand in your way."

"Just as well," said Fran, her voice cold again, "because Mr Neale telephoned me today. Because I hadn't replied before he thought perhaps I wasn't interested. He offered a compromise – a three day week and accommodation thrown in. They're really desperate. I'm going up to London to talk to him."

Christopher closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He wanted to hold her and beg her not to go; but she had made up her mind and he had said that he wouldn't stand in her way. Now he would have to live with that.

"I'm sorry, love, I don't want to hurt you but I have to do something," she looked at him sadly, "I can't rattle around here all day, doing nothing. I have to get…." She stopped.

"Get away?" he asked softly.

"Yes," it was a whisper.

She watched his face, as a whole variety of emotions were portrayed there.

"I see," he said.

He left the house.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

**.**

Foyle sat in the 'The Crown' pub with a pint in his hand, having just finished his solitary meal. He had no idea what he'd eaten or how it had tasted; he was too caught up in his thoughts of Frances. He'd known that he'd have to let her go if she decided that was what she wanted, but like this? This was not just wanting to work; this was wanting to get away, but from what? Him? She was desperately unhappy; why? She wouldn't answer his questions, he couldn't get close to her emotionally or physically; what on earth was going on?

He finished his pint and bought another. Beer was not a particular favourite of his, but finding a decent whisky was almost impossible nowadays. And this fourth pint was certainly helping to numb the pain that he'd felt when she'd said she was going. Could she have met someone else? He had been astounded when she'd told him that she'd had no relationships between her husband and himself; was she now regretting choosing him? Now that she was almost over her bouts of panic was she wishing she'd not married but 'played the field'? What did she ever see in him anyway?

.

.

A very small part of his increasingly drunken mind recognised that he was becoming mawkish and maudlin. He hadn't been drunk for years and the beer was affecting him more than he realised. When he stumbled up for another the young girl behind the bar refused to serve him.

"I really think you've had enough, sir," she said in a friendly tone, "Why don't you get on home, eh?

"Don't want to go home," replied Foyle churlishly, "Want another drink."

The girl called over the landlord who took one look at his pale, sweaty face and led him to the door.

"And don't throw up on the doorstep," he warned as Foyle looked around, trying to get his bearings.

He was a couple of streets away when his meal and beer ended up on the pavement, but he felt no better for it. He couldn't go home and face Frances in the mood he'd left her. He decided to throw himself on Milner's mercy and set off in what he hoped was the right direction.

.

.

Early the following morning a fifteen-year old lad, cycling to work, found Foyle collapsed in an alleyway in town, blood encrusted on his head and face. Thinking he had found a victim of an assault he called the police. Fortunately the constable that came out was a sensible young man who kept the identity of the 'victim' quiet and asked for Milner by name when he telephoned the station.

Once reassured that his boss was not seriously injured, Milner took Foyle to hospital, swearing Sam to secrecy about the incident. Milner could smell the beer and vomit and was determined that his boss' dignity would be preserved. He telephoned Frances, telling her that her husband had 'met with an accident' and was being treated for a head injury. He also offered to send Sam to pick her up and bring her there.

.

.

Frances put the telephone down, her heart racing. She knew that she'd hurt Christopher last night, so when he had not come home she'd presumed he'd stayed with a friend or colleague; it had never crossed her mind that something may have happened to him. A head injury could mean anything. And why was Milner so evasive; 'met with an accident'?

Sam was equally evasive, repeating what Milner had said and not providing any more information when questioned. For her part, Sam was shocked at how pale and drained Frances was looking and all kinds of ideas were going through her imaginative mind.

It was a long wait at the hospital before Fran was allowed to see her husband. The longer she waited, the more convinced she was that Christopher was badly injured, so when she was finally allowed in and saw him sitting in a chair, a small dressing on his forehead covering a couple of stitches, but otherwise apparently unhurt, she was so relieved that she burst into tears. Despite a splitting headache, partly hangover and partly from the bang on his head, Christopher was encouraged at this reaction. He held out his arms to her and was incredibly relieved when she returned the embrace.

.

.

They did not speak on the way home, but the silence had a different quality from the previous few days. Christopher sat in the back of the car, his arm around Frances, heartened by the fact that she did not pull away.

"Thank you, Sam," he said as she pulled up outside their house.

"You won't be coming in to work tomorrow, sir, will you?" asked Sam. Something about her tone reminded him of his mother.

"I very much doubt it, Sam. I'll let you know when you're needed."

Once inside, Frances made him a pot of tea and found some aspirin while he removed his blood-stained shirt and cleaned himself up. She put the shirt to soak while he, wearing a baggy fishing jumper, drank his tea. Picking up his overcoat she smelled it and took it outside, hung it on the line to air. When she returned she sat on the sofa and looked at him.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Think I, um, had an argument with a wall," he replied with a wry smile.

"I'd hate to see the wall," she said, "Had you been drinking, Christopher?"

Christopher knew her opinions on that subject, having suffered at the hands of her drunken husband. However the evidence was clear. He took a deep breath.

"Yes," he answered, "I'd been drinking because I'm miserable, because you're so unhappy, and I don't know why, and I can't do anything to help. Because I'm worried about you, and you're going to leave me and …"

"Sshh," she said, "I'm not going anywhere. It may sound foolish, but worrying about you this morning put everything in perspective. Can we talk now or does your head hurt too much?"

He sighed, "Please, Fran, please talk to me. Tell me what's going on."

"I don't know where to start," she looked at him, then straightened up, "But at least I think I can talk about it now, without falling apart again." She smiled wanly and began.

.

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

.

Dear Readers, you know how you feel when you find a new chapter of a story you like? That's how feel when find a review! Let me know, good, bad, indifferent... I'll take 'em all!


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Frances told him everything.

"You know the day I went to get the test results? Mr Pearson told me about the anaemia then he told me about the other test they'd done. Dr Tranter thought my symptoms indicated that I was pregnant but obviously that diagnosis was suspect because of… Well, they did a test, the results take some time apparently, and it was positive..."

"You mean..?" Christopher began, astounded.

"Not so fast, love," she interrupted him, "You see, between them doing the test and me seeing Mr Poynton, I'd had my 'monthly visitor'. When he examined me it was clear that I wasn't… I had been but…"

She stopped, tears forming in her eyes, "I'd been pregnant but I'd had an early miscarriage, I'd lost our baby, and I didn't even know."

"It was awful," she continued, "he asked me to tell him about… the first time… Elizabeth. Then he tried to tell me that this wasn't anywhere near as bad or upsetting because this was… how did he phrase it?...'a clump of cells'. But it wasn't to me, to me it was the start of our child, yours and mine. "

"Oh, Fran, my love, why didn't you tell me?" he said softly, his own voice choked with tears. He moved to sit beside her, put his arm around her shoulders.

"How could I?" she sobbed, "I couldn't cope with my own grief. How could I cope with yours as well? I wanted to tell you, but every time I tried I thought of that day we walked up to Lover's Seat. Remember? You told me about wanting a daughter and about Rosalind and you were so sad. I couldn't bear to see you like that again…"

"So you kept it to yourself to protect me?" he asked incredulously, "Good Lord, Fran, I don't need protecting. I need you to share whatever's worrying you, however you feel. I want us to face things together."

Fran looked at him, grateful for his understanding, "And then, just as I'd made up my mind to tell you, even though you might hate me for it, I'm delivering a dress I'd altered to a girl in town; I walk past The Regency and there you are – deep in conversation with a woman, smiling at her.

"Told you who she was, Fran, there was nothing to be concerned about."

"I already felt guilty about not telling you; I'd been so, I don't know… hostile to you. I thought you'd given up on me. You were letting me go to London without a fight; I thought you'd already found someone else."

He was so astounded to hear her sound so insecure. She hadn't had a panic attack since February; he really thought she understood how he felt about her. Apparently he was wrong. He remembered eating his meal alone while she must have been crying upstairs; why the hell had he done that? And the time she'd told him about the job offer. He'd never actually said 'Don't go.' What had he said? 'I won't stand in your way'? Ye Gods, what an idiot he'd been.

He stood up, pulled her to her feet and into his embrace.

"Frances," he said into her hair, as she hiccupped into his chest, her sobs now subsiding, "I know I'm not a, um, talkative man; I know that I keep my feelings in check, find it, um, difficult, sometimes, to express the things that mean the most to me. So let me be clear, now. I don't want you to go, not for even a day. I don't hate you for anything; I could never feel that way. I'm not Ron; please, love, remember that. I would never, knowingly, hurt you. I love you more now than ever."

"You know," she looked up at him, "when I was pregnant the first time I thought that, whatever Ron said or did, that child would be mine to love and would love me. I was _very_ young then. I know now it wouldn't have been like that,.." She stared at the floor, "But this was _yours_, Christopher; something I could give _you_. If I'd have had any idea that I was carrying again I'd have been so careful, so… Poynton couldn't explain why I'd miscarried."

"It's not your fault, Fran," he said, taking her face in his hands, "These things happen. Please don't think it's your fault." He kissed her carefully, unsure of her reaction. Why did she think he'd blame her? "I love you so much, Fran. I'll love you whatever happens. _You_ are enough for me; you don't need to give me a child. I never expected you to, and I married you, didn't I? Because I love _you_, you're all I want."

"Even when I accuse you of meeting beautiful women in a hotel?" she attempted a smile. "I don't know why I said that."

"Because you were hurting?" he suggested, "Because you'd buried your awful secret inside yourself and it was causing you so much pain that you lashed out? I just happened to be the one in the way."

"You're very wise, my love," she said, a real smile showing through the tears.

"Not really," he answered, "In my job I see what love and pain and rejection can make people do. At least you didn't come at me with a kitchen knife." He was glad the mood of the conversation was turning. He could see her body relaxing into his; the tears subsiding.

Francs burrowed into his side, her head on his shoulder, "Thank you, Christopher. Thank you for loving me even when I don't deserve it."

_'__She still thinks she has to earn my love?'_

"Oh, Frances," he pronounced dramatically, "I'd love you even as the knife was piercing my heart!"

She laughed, then, and closed her eyes. His head was still pounding, he did the same.

.

.

It was mid-afternoon when Christopher woke up, but at least the headache had lessened. He found Frances washing up the cups, more calm and composed than she'd been for days. Coming up behind her he wrapped his arms around her. She leaned back into his hug and he let himself believe that the worst was behind them.

"Would you like something to eat?" she asked, "You haven't had anything all day."

Christopher's stomach roiled at the thought of food. "Best not, I think," he said ruefully, "can't remember the last time I got so drunk. I still feel queasy."

He spent the rest of the day reading and dozing, while Fran worked in the garden. She made herself a sandwich for tea, but he still refrained from eating.

"We haven't spoken about the job in London," he said hesitantly that evening, almost afraid to return to the subject, "And I remember you saying you weren't going anywhere, or did I dream that? Are you still thinking of going?"

"Mmm, I've had an idea about that," she smiled, "I am going up there, but only for a day. I need to talk to Mr Neale about it."

"What's this idea then?" he asked, delighted that she seemed to have abandoned the idea of going back to work there permanently.

"Oohh, it's a secret – but a good one," she smiled, "I need to discuss it with him before I tell you. But I won't be accepting their job offer."

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That night they lay curled up together in bed, both of them happy just to be together again without any destructive secrets between them. Next morning Christopher awoke early ravenously hungry. Poking about in the larder he found the makings of a decent cooked breakfast, eggs, sausages and two slices of bacon. He cooked them and fried two slices of bread in the sausage fat. It smelled delicious. Going upstairs to wake Fran for this surprise, he found her coming out of the bathroom. She still looked pale but the dullness in her eyes was gone.

"Fried breakfast waiting for you, love," he said, "Thank goodness I don't feel sick anymore."

"Lucky you," she replied, "I'll be down in a moment."

As he went downstairs he heard her return to the bathroom, and sounds very much like he'd made himself after leaving the pub. When she came downstairs, however, he saw she was smiling. Perhaps he'd been imagining it.

"That bump on the head must have affected my hearing," he said as they both tucked into their food, "I thought I hear you being, um, ill, in the bathroom."

"Your hearing's fine," she answered, "I was." She looked at him seriously, "No secrets…I was, and yesterday too. In fact for several days... D'you think ..?"

.

oooooOOOOOooooo

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Again, a huge thank you to everyone who's taken a few moments from busy lives to review this story. Much appreciated!

(You think it strange that Frances would be eating a fried breakfast? When I was expecting my first I would get up, throw up, then go eat a decent breakfast, sometimes even fried, and go to work!)


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